A Plagiarized, Original Musing

We say goodbye to the saints, in a midnight black cemetery, our padded footsteps guided by soft blue lights placed thoughtfully by the graves of those who are in want of a way back home--whether they want this or others, that is not the question. Oh, what is the question, should we do something with our lives? 

The stars are so quiet, caught in a blue and bronze circus train of nebulae and animals that roar with twinkles in their eyes and balls of light in their throats, trailing rivets of blood that leak onto the moon on some storied fall night. 

What do you want me to do? They who once made me laugh so much I cried served their purpose and lo left me without mine. What is there left to do that shall keep me sane, not barren, not sallow and shallow, haunting your subconscious like an unconscious, unholy storybook character or a petty god stripped of wings and left to wallow on a rock out to sea sent to be swallowed up by the cool black galaxy.

'To be' is such a horrid over simplification. If I am to be something, how will I ever know until I am nothing? Did Van Gogh know he was a being? A gift from the stars? Did he think he a pitiful mistake from the earth, a careless weed, tugged and pulled, stretched from its roots? Only in death shall we know, silently waiting while they chip our tombstones, if we ended up anything. 

I will worry, I will condescend, I will repress and suppress every syllable you utter in favor of me until I myself can sharply see who I have become to be. Tonight, I am immortal. Tonight I am fearful. Tonight I wonder where you are and what you feel when you read this. 

I rip apart the starched specter of time, and in this spirit of self-actualization, wonder if a solemn playwright under our lazy sobriquet found solace in a graveyard where a monologue turns into a soliloquy and turns over again, until he realized what it meant to be, or not.